


Check, Please!

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: 221B Mine [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Waiters & Waitresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John first meet on Valentine's Day, surrounded by flowers and candlelight in a fine Italian restaurant. It's the picture perfect romantic setting, with just one small hitch: Sherlock already has a date, and John is their waiter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Check, Please!

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I know I'm behind, but these things keep getting longer and longer, and one of them just is _not_ coming together, so there might be only 6. I'm trying to save my energy for the grand finale, which is where all the sex is, just in case you were wondering when that was gonna show up.
> 
> Make sure to check out my [Tumblr](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/) so you can get enter into my [follower giveaway](http://thelittlebitofeverythinggirl.tumblr.com/post/108860752976/okay-so-like-i-said-i-reached-1k-a-while-ago)! It's going to be open until Valentine's Day.
> 
> Double also, there's a Valentine's Day playlist: [221B Mine](http://8tracks.com/prettysailorsoldier/221b-mine)!

“Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” John bowed his head, nodding in farewell at the couple as they gathered their coats and swept from the table toward the exit, turning their heads to smile back at him.

The second their backs were turned, he let the smile drop from his face, swiping the black leather check holder off the table and tucking it into the front pocket of his apron as he began clearing the cups from the couple’s after-dinner coffee. Dropping them off into the dish pit, he moved to one of the order kiosks, tapping in his code to open the cash drawer as he flipped open the leather holder.

“Super,” he muttered, rattling his head at what a little quick math informed him was a 5% tip, but he pocketed the money all the same, sliding the remainder of the customer’s payment into the appropriate bill slots before clanging the cash drawer closed.

“Hey, John?” said a voice to his left, and he turned, finding Molly standing in the narrow corridor leading from the kitchen, a laden tray balanced between her shoulder and wrist. “Do you mind taking this to table 12? My arms just don’t have it in ‘em anymore,” she sighed, shaking her head exhaustedly, and John chuckled, curling his fingers in beckoning as he approached.

“Give it here,” he said, and Molly smiled, even that looking tired as she neared the end of her long shift.

“Thanks,” she panted as John gingerly took the tray from her, balancing the plates of pasta and what looked like the chicken special on his palm. “I’ll be over to check on them in a second, I’ve just gotta get the drinks out to 15 first.”

“Good luck with that one,” John murmured, flicking his brows as he turned back toward the restaurant. “Guy’s been reading over the wine list since he sat down. There’s a vein pulsing in his forehead and everything,” he quipped, tossing a smile over his shoulder as Molly laughed, and then rounded the corner, steadying the tray with his shoulder as he weaved his way through the candlelit tables.

Any Saturday night was always busy at the restaurant—a dress-code-enforced Italian establishment that required a foreign language degree and a limitless credit card to be able to eat at—but Valentine’s Day was the worst, something John felt fairly confident saying even though this was his first one on the job. The lighting was even dimmer than usual, their all-black uniforms nearly disappearing in the gloom, which, he supposed, was probably the point. Meticulously arranged low vases of roses and baby’s breath sat in the center of every table, the thorn-cuts on his fingers still stinging at the memory, and there were candles _everywhere_ , including a rather ominous looking candelabra perched on the piano playing softly in the corner, the whole thing coming across a little more foreboding than romantic as far as he was concerned.

“Seafood risotto?” John asked as he drew up beside the table, looking between the couple, a professional-looking duo in their mid-thirties.

“Here,” the woman replied, smiling politely at him as she shifted her fork slightly to the side, giving him an additional centimeter of space in which to place her meal.

“And the pesto chicken,” he continued, dropping the plate in front of the man, who merely flicked his head in acknowledgement. John tucked the empty tray under his arm, smiling blandly between them. “Your regular server will be over shortly to check in, but is there anything I can get you right now?” he asked, and the man grunted indistinctly, shaking his head.

“No, thank you,” the woman replied, giving her date a pointed look as he snatched the pepper grinder from the center of the table, and then turning her face up to John, mouth twisting in apology.

John bowed his head, letting his smile curl a little more genuine on one side. “Enjoy your meal,” he said, shuffling a step backward before he turned, crossing the room to snake around the bar. “Hey, can I get a St. George and tonic with lime?” he requested, focusing his question on the tangle of dark hair tied up atop the pale neck of their bartender.

Irene turned to face him, chuckling softly as she quirked a brow. “Already?” she quipped, dark lips smirking as her dangling gold earrings shimmered in the shifting light. “You’ve only been here three hours.”

“Ha ha,” John replied tonelessly, and Irene grinned, moving away to fix the drink. “Just you tonight?” he asked, looking around for Craig, their other bartender who was sometimes called in to help during a rush.

“Well, don’t sound so _happy_ around it,” Irene snipped, and John smiled, chuckling faintly as he leaned his hip against the counter. “But yeah. Surprisingly, Valentine’s Day isn’t all that big for cocktails.”

“Really?” John asked, though, now than he thought about, he had only gotten two orders for them so far.

“Yeah, people tend to go for wine. More romantic,” she explained, shrugging a shoulder as she measured out the gin.

John hummed, looking out over the restaurant as he folded his arms over his chest. “I guess that makes sense.”

“Not to me,” Irene scoffed, shaking her head as she dropped two ice cubes into the glass, the clear liquor quickly following. “I need a drink just to get out of _bed_ for this pathetic excuse for a holiday.”

John bit at his lip, trying to stifle a grin. “No luck at the club last night?” he surmised, lifting a brow when Irene snapped her head up with a glare.

“No,” she grumbled miserably, and John laughed, pulling a small tray from the nearby stack and holding it out. “I think I’ve hit lesbian middle-age,” she added, clicking the glass down on the tray as John shook his head at her.

“You’re 26,” he countered, but Irene only shrugged.

“Lesbian years are different,” she muttered, waving a dismissive hand in the air as John rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied, tipping his head, and Irene chuckled.

“Well, I should hope not!” she urged, crossing her arms as she smirked. “So, what’s 24 in bisexual years?”

“Doesn’t matter, really,” John answered, shrugging as he started back out toward the tables. “We’re immortal,” he added over his shoulder, Irene laughing as he winked.

He dropped off the drink, the elderly gentleman smiling kindly at him before turning back to conversation with his wife, and was just heading back to the kitchen to check on the status of some of his orders when Mary caught his attention, waving a hand at him from her hostess stand. John frowned, circling around the edge of the room to meet her, and the blonde met him just inside the dining area, one eye over her shoulder on the door.

“What’s up?” John asked, and Mary bobbed her head out behind him.

“You’ve got a VIP in your section,” she said. “Well, not him, his date, but he’s not here yet.”

“Who?” John questioned, trying to follow Mary’s eyes as he turned out to the diners.

“Table 6,” she replied, and John’s gaze found the dark silhouette of a man, his back turned as he leaned down, thin fingers riffling through a dark leather satchel sitting on the floor beside his chair.

John nodded, looking back to the woman. “Cheers,” he said, touching lightly to her elbow in thanks as he moved away, and Mary smiled, bobbing a nod before heading back to her post.

John weaved his way through the tables, approaching from the back of the newcomer as he watched the man straighten up, one hand swiping across the screen of a mobile while the other placed some sort of file atop the menu lying in front of him. “Good evening,” he greeted blithely as he stepped up aside the table, hands folding in front of his apron. “My name’s John, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Is there anything I can get you to drink while you look over the menu?”

The man shook his head, face remaining downturned as he flicked a pale hand between them. “Just water’s fine.”

“Still or sparkling?” John inquired, and the man drew in a breath to reply as he lifted his chin.

“Um,” he began, and then stalled, eyes stuttering over a blink as they landed on John’s face. “Tap,” he blurted, swallow bobbing down his throat as he momentarily dropped his gaze to the table. “Er, tap water’s fine,” he added, looking back to John again with a sheepish quirk of a smile.

John smiled back, bowing his head as he withdrew. “Alright. I’ll get that for you right away,” he assured, the man giving him a brief nod before John turned away.

He looked back when he reached the opposite side of the room, and thought he saw the man’s eyes snap away from him, but it was too dark to say for certain. Smiling softly to himself, he grabbed a glass and one of the prepared silver pitchers of ice water, glancing over his shoulder as he wiped the developed condensation off the exterior with the designated rag sitting nearby.

The man had opened the file on the table, one hand flicking through the pages while the other twisted a pencil in the air, the arm propped up by an elbow on the white tablecloth. His dark hair swirled in thick curls that hung down from his forehead as he bent low over a page to make a quick notation, and, as he leaned back, the candles of the centerpiece caught on his sharp cheekbones, draping shadows over his thoughtfully furrowed face.

John dropped his eyes back to the pitcher, wiping the last of the water smears clear, his own face reflected distortedly in the metal surface, and he held his own eyes as he blew out a breath. This was a good job, helping him pay for his obnoxiously overpriced medical textbooks and tiny flat he shared with too many people, and it wouldn’t do any good to get himself fired for flirting with the Valentine’s Day date of one of the restaurant’s VIPs, no matter how attractive said date might be.

Straightening his spine, he inhaled a steadying breath through his nose, nodding to himself in the water pitcher before gathering it and the glass up, walking back to the table. He held the glass out over the dark hardwood floor as he filled it, and then placed it gingerly atop a clear space next to the empty bread plate. “Any questions about the menu I can answer for you?” he asked, perching the pitcher on the edge of the table as he spoke. “We have a few specials going right now; they’re on the insert just inside your menu.”

“No, I-” the man began, looking up from his work, and then stopped once again, closing his mouth while John sternly ordered his eyes not to follow the movement of his lips. “It’ll be a while yet,” he remarked, tipping his head as he glanced at the chair opposite him. “Always is. You don’t have to…keep checking in,” he muttered, waving a hand in the air between them, and John smiled down at him, shrugging a shoulder.

“Kind of my job,” he replied, and the man chuckled, a deep rumble of a sound amidst the soft clinking of piano keys and forks.

“Well, I don’t need anything,” he said, shaking his head, the collar of his purple shirt shifting against his ivory skin as he moved. “Not until he gets here, anyway,” the man added, looking once again to the opposite chair, and John’s stomach twisted slightly at the reminder.

“I could bring some bread out,” John offered, but the man only chuckled, shaking his head.

“No, really, I-”

A loud gasp issued from behind them, the dark-haired man’s eyes blowing wide with alarm as he spun around in his chair, but John merely turned his head, the sound a matter of routine at this point.

The young man was too far away to hear, but the fact that he was down on one knee in front of a pretty blond woman with tears in her eyes didn’t exactly leave much to be misconstrued. The man’s fingers were quaking slightly as he pulled a red ring box—heart-shaped for the occasion—from the pocket of his suit jacket, and he peeled open the lid, the blonde clapping a hand to her mouth in shock as she nodded. He then stood, the girl rising with him as they embraced, and she lifted her left hand into his when they pulled apart, her body noticeably trembling as he slid the ring down onto her finger.

Somewhere, the applause started, and John just refrained from rolling his eyes, lifting his hands in the required show of staff celebration as he forced a smile, and then let it drop just as quickly, arms falling to his sides as he turned his attention back to the man. Grey eyes had already been looking up at him, one dark brow quirked as a smirk played at the full mouth, and John’s face twitched in a frown. “What?” he murmured, caught off guard enough to forget his customer service manners, but the man didn’t seem to pay it any mind, smiling as he continued to stare.

“Not the first proposal you’ve seen?” he supposed, and John blinked a moment before dropping his face, huffing a small laugh.

“No,” he answered, shaking his head, and the man chuckled. “Not even the first one today, actually.”

“Well, tis the season,” the customer quipped back, and John laughed, nodding as he lifted his brows. “Although, why someone would want to share their engagement date with half of Britain has always been beyond me.”

“Exactly!” John urged, forgetting himself completely in his victory as he thrust a hand down at the man. “That’s what I’ve been _saying_ , but Mary insists it’s romantic for some ridiculous-”

“Mary?”

John fell silent, lips caught apart as he blinked down at the grey eyes, creased at the edges as the man frowned. “Um, the hostess,” John murmured, pointing a thumb toward the door as he glanced at the blonde, and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted the relieved lowering of the man’s shoulders to be just in his head or not.

“Oh,” the man mused, looking back to him for a moment, and then his eyes focused on something out ahead, a smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth. “Well, it doesn’t seem particularly romantic to _her_ ,” he muttered, and John turned, following his gaze to the professional young couple from earlier, who looked to now be about halfway through their delivered meal.

The man had pulled a black ring box from his pocket, his hand still draped over it as he spoke to the shocked woman across the table, and then he stretched out his arm, sliding the closed case over the tablecloth to rest in front of her plate.

“Oh, thank god,” John breathed, heartrate picking up with anticipation. “I didn’t miss it.”

“Miss what?” the customer said, and John started, snapping a look down to find the man had leaned forward, peering up from alongside John’s hip.

“Um,” John murmured, gaze flicking between him and where the woman was picking up the ring box, opening it with a slack, stunned expression. “I- She’s gonna say no,” he explained, dropping his voice, not entirely sure why he trusted this total stranger not to turn him in and get him fired for being a monster.

“Really?” was all the man said, frowning curiously before they both turned to watch the exchange, seemingly the only two people in the room who had noticed.

Sure enough, the woman closed the box, shaking her head as she placed it back down on the table, pushing it away with her fingertips. Her lips moved, one hand shifting in placating gestures in the air in front of her while the other reached down, gathering her purse from the floor.

The man, for his part, reacted much the way John had expected, very little emotion playing out on his face as he pulled the ring case back and lowered it to his lap, but, still, as the woman stood, moving past him toward the door, John saw a stiff swallow bob down his throat, and no one could ever be unpleasant enough to him to not inspire at least a little pity at that.

“Wow,” the dark-haired man at his side murmured, and John turned back. The man tilted his head thoughtfully up at him, eyes searching shrewdly over his face. “How did you know?” he asked, and John shrugged.

“I- Well, it’s kind of silly,” he muttered with a self-conscious grimace, but the man waved a hand, dismissing the anxiety. “It’s just- Well, she arrived before he did,” he began, nodding his head back at the table, “and, when he got there…he didn’t touch her.” He shrugged, rubbing a hand up the back of his neck, realizing how absurd it was now that he was saying it aloud. “Like, you know, when he walked by her to his chair. He didn’t…touch her shoulder, or-or kiss her cheek or anything.” He looked down at his black shoes, tipping his head as he lightly scuffed his heel into the carpet. “It’s just a pattern I’ve noticed, I guess. We get a lot of proposals in here,” he chuckled, trying to break the tension, but perhaps the situation was only awkward to him, the man doing nothing but blinking up at him, searching between his eyes with something like awe.

“That…is an entirely sound assessment,” he murmured, forehead furrowing as if in suspicion, and John lifted a brow, uncertain if he should be offended that him being right about something was apparently a cause for surprise.

“Thank you?” he hesitantly replied, and the man rattled his head, looking down at the open folder in front of him.

“No, I-I didn’t mean- That’s what I do,” he muttered in a rush, turning his hands in the air. “My-My job. Well, not my _job_ , I suppose, because nobody’s paying me for it, but I- I’m a consulting detective,” he said, and John blinked twice in quick succession, wondering if that was supposed to make sense. “Which doesn’t mean anything,” the man continued, shaking his head as if reading John’s thoughts. “I invented the title. And the job, actually.” His eyes darted nervously over the file, fingers tapping at the table as he swallowed. “I-I help the police sometimes,” he explained, looking up at John through his lashes. “With cases. I can- Well, like what you did,” he said, waving a hand between John and the now-empty table, the man having asked for the check and made himself scarce. “Except I can do it with anyone. All the time.” He fell silent, hands twisting over the pages in front of him as he looked up at John, eyes darting between his as if waiting for something inevitable to appear.

Whether John gave it to him or not, he did not know, but he did look down, tilting his head as he pried for the first time into what exactly was on the pages spread out over the table.

It looked to be photos mostly, along with a black and white diagram John recognized as a generic autopsy report, but what caught his attention was the official logo printed across the top of most of the pages, proclaiming the origin to be New Scotland Yard.

John lifted his eyes again, blinking at the man’s earnest expression. “Show me,” he said, surprising them both if the widening of the grey eyes was any indication.

The man scanned over his face once more, and then turned out, eyes passing over the restaurant. “He’s going to propose with dessert,” he pronounced, pointing subtly toward a couple tucked into a corner booth, and there was something different about his voice now, an additional sharpness that plucked at the hairs at the back of John’s neck. “Wedding anniversary,” he continued, nodding at the elderly couple John had spoken to earlier. “Thirty-something-th, I can’t say for certain. And the woman with the fur coat is-”

“Woah, slow down,” John interjected, lifting a hand, and the man stopped, mouth caught open as he turned up to him. “I don’t know any of them,” he said, gesturing out at the restaurant with a wave of his hand. “I have no idea if you’re right.”

“I am,” the man replied flatly, and John was startled into a bark of laughter, almost just letting the matter go at that.

“Maybe,” he chuckled, and the man’s jaw shifted stubbornly, “but I can’t know, can I?”

The man’s eyes narrowed, and then he quite calmly lifted his arms, planting his elbows on the table as he settled his chin on folded fingers, and John froze like circled prey. “Bart’s,” he started simply, and John’s eyes bulged. “Medicine program, currently in clinical placement. You live with…two or three other students, drive a manual, are left-handed, and are currently favoring your right leg due to a sport injury, even though you of all people know babying the muscle isn’t actually going to do any good.” He closed his mouth, John’s standing in the opposite condition, and then his lips twitched at the corner, almost smug.

John just stared, his eyes deserts before he managed to command his brain to blink. “How- What- Have we met?”

“No,” the man replied, smiling outright now as he shook his head. “Sherlock Holmes, by the way,” he added, unwinding one hand to wave it at his chest.

John’s mouth flapped soundlessly, opening and closing as he struggled to string a sentence together in his mind. “I- That- That was amazing,” he breathed, and Sherlock, so smug but a moment ago, startled, years falling off his face as it was overcome with naked shock.

“Really?” he murmured, hardly audible, but John could have gleaned the sentiment from the look in his eyes even if he hadn’t heard.

“Yes!” he urged, nodding adamantly. “It was extraordinary; it- How did you-”

“There you are!”

Sherlock blinked, the spark in his eyes collapsing as they pinched with something John would almost call pain, and then his face shuttered completely, an unrecognizable mask settling over it as he dropped his gaze away to the table.

“What, you can’t pick up your phone?”

John turned, watching the tall blond man approach in an impeccably tailored grey suit that he would need to take out another loan to even dream of being able to afford. He was wearing a white shirt with a pale blue tie, a large black briefcase swinging from his hand, and, as he strode past Sherlock, not even so much as looking at him as he dropped into his chair with a heavy sigh, John could feel the air strain with Sherlock’s effort not to meet his eyes.

“God, that meeting just would not _end_! Simmons could _not_ stop talking about his latest client, you know how he is.”

Whether Sherlock did or didn’t know remained unclear, as he made no attempt to respond, and the blond man didn’t appear to be looking for one either, flicking his napkin in the air as he unfurled it and draped it over his lap, and then turned his face up to John, brown eyes glinting over an expectant smile.

“Um,” John stammered, rattling his head slightly as he forced himself back into his body, swallowing down the thick knot of jealousy he had absolutely no right to, “can I get you something to drink? While you look over the menu?”

“What do you have for chardonnay?” the man asked, dropping his eyes from John as he redundantly snatched the wine list from the center of the table.

“Antinori,” John replied, and the man nodded down at the list in approval, as if John had just passed some sort of test.

“I’ll have a glass of that,” he said, passing the menu up to him, and John took it, bowing his head as he stepped back.

“Excellent,” he clipped, a hair sharper than normal, “I’ll get that right out. You still fine with the water?” he directed at Sherlock, who nodded, barely glancing up at him from the tops of his eyes. “Alright. I’ll be right back, then. Take your time, look over the menus, and don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions,” he recited, though, who he was talking to, he couldn’t’ve said, the blond gentleman already buried in his mobile while Sherlock fidgeted with the corner of the autopsy report.

John moved swiftly away, dropping by the anniversary couple Sherlock had pointed out earlier, making sure to ask them if they were celebrating something special as he took their order, and then delivered the ticket to the kitchen before heading over to Irene. “Chardonnay,” he barked, and Irene straightened up from where she’d been unloading another bag of ice, her eyes wide beneath raised brows.

“Excuse me?” she snapped, and he sighed, shaking his head down at the floor as he pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry, I- Can I get a chardonnay?” he asked, and Irene frowned, stepping toward him.

“What’s got your knickers up your ass?” she muttered, and John’s face twisted with an unamused sneer.

“Nothing,” he tartly replied, but Irene ignored him, looking out into the restaurant.

“ _Oh_ ,” she breathed, nodding her head in dawning comprehension, and John turned, following her gaze to find the back of Sherlock’s head, bowed over his file while the blond’s lips flapped at him. “Finally showed up, did he?” she stated, and John’s jaw shifted as he tore his eyes away. “Tough break, that one. I was pullin’ for ya,” she said over her shoulder as she moved to fetch the wine from a fridge below the counter. “Not that you couldn’t still go for it,” she tacked on with a shrug, and John sniffed.

“He’s got a boyfriend. Sitting across from him,” he reminded, but Irene only scoffed.

“Nobody leaves a guy like _that_ sitting alone on Valentine’s Day and still deserves to keep him,” she snipped, bobbing her head out at the pair.

“Keep him?” John echoed. “He’s a person, not a stray dog.”

“Precisely,” the woman agreed, tipping the prescribed amount of wine into a carafe. “Which is why he deserves someone who actually shows up.”

“He showed up,” John argued frailly, and Irene, appropriately, snorted.

“20 minutes late! Come on, John, even you’ve been at this job long enough to know what that means,” she said, dropping her chin as she pointedly lifted her brows at him. “Go for it!” she urged, snapping up a tray and passing it to him before placing the carafe and empty wineglass atop the surface. “Slip your phone number under his plate! Write a secret message in gravy!”

John laughed, shaking his head as he began moving away. “I don’t think so. I’m not feeling like much of a homewrecker tonight.”

“That’s not a _home_!” Irene sputtered at his back. “That’s a sketchy flat with drug-dealing neighbors at best!”

John laughed, smiling at her over his shoulder as he headed back toward the table, and Irene rolled her eyes, waving a hand at him like a lost cause.

The blond man was talking as he approached, so John remained silent as he drew up to his right side, placing the glass on the table before gently pouring the wine from the carafe. “So then _I_ suggested we look back at the original statements,” he said, waving a hand through the air, “and, as it turns out, the receptionist _initially_ said- What are you doing?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock hummed, lifting his face from his file to blink across at the man, who glowered at him.

“I’m telling a story,” he snapped, but Sherlock only quirked a brow. “Haven’t you been listening? The receptionist-”

“Lied, yes, I know,” Sherlock interjected, turning a photo over in his hands, a particularly gruesome thing John hoped nearby patrons wouldn’t notice. “I was the one who told you to check her original statement,” he added tartly, and the blond’s jaw twitched, a swallow shifting down his throat.

“Well, _I_ \- Would you put that away?” he bit, swatting a hand down at the case file. “I don’t wanna stare at crime scene photos while I eat.”

“You just graphically explained the trajectory of 27 stab wounds.”

“That’s different,” the man countered sharply. “That’s for one of my cases.”

“And this is for one of mine.”

“I meant a _real_ case, Sherlock.”

“This is a ‘real case’, Victor,” Sherlock spat back, prompting the blond to roll his eyes. “It’s going to trial next week. That woman accused of killing her stock-broker husband.”

“That old thing?” Victor scoffed, smiling amusedly down at the pages. “Why are you still wasting your time with that? It’s obvious she’s guilty.”

“No, she’s not,” Sherlock said firmly, and John, for one, was convinced, shuffling along the fringes of the conversation on the pretense of re-rolling silverware on a nearby table that had recently been reset.

Victor chuckled, shaking his head with patronizing fondness. “Oh, Sherlock,” he mused, reaching across the table to flick the file closed, the detective gaping down in affront at the motion, apparently too stunned to react as the blond snapped the folder up, leaning around the table to toss it down onto the floor near Sherlock’s bag. “You really don’t know anything about the law, do you?”

Sherlock blinked, seeming to come back to himself, and a shiver ran down John’s spine at the banked fury in his eyes as they flashed like sparring steel. “You’ve been at that law firm _seven months_ ,” he snapped. “I’ve _solved_ more cases than you’ve even _seen_.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, lips pressing flat, and then he sniffed, a vile twist of a smile curling at his lips. “Well,” he clipped, lifting his glass by the stem as he swirled the wine within, “I suppose we’ll find out next week.” He smirked, flicking his glass as if in toast before taking a sip, and then his eyes caught on John, who quickly pretended he hadn’t been looking. “Oh, waiter!” he called, snapping his fingers in the air, and John could only stare at him a moment, uncertain if he had ever been literally _snapped_ at.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock muttered, face wrinkling across the table in disgust as John approached. “He’s not a _dog_!” he spat, and John ducked a small smile as he pulled out his order pad, charmed by the matching sentiment.

Victor only rolled his eyes, flipping a hand at him in dismissal as Sherlock’s mouth dropped open.

“You ready to order?” John surmised, and Victor nodded, lifting the menu up in front of him.

“Yes, but, first, I have a question,” he said, and John nodded in beckoning. “The raschera cheese that comes with the ravioli, where do you get it?”

John blinked, eyebrows knitting together as he took a moment to make sure he hadn’t misheard. “I- All of our supplies are delivered fresh every morning from local vendors.”

“But where do _they_ get it?” Victor pressed, and, out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock roll his eyes as he lifted his water to his lips. “Like, where does it come from _originally_?”

John stared at him, fighting to keep his brows from lifting. “Cows,” he deadpanned, and there was an explosion of sound from his left as Sherlock choked, body reeling forward as he slammed his water glass down on the table, his other hand lifting to cover his mouth as he coughed.

“Sorry,” he croaked, a poor attempt at an apology even further desecrated by the smirk trembling in the corners of his mouth, “wrong pipe.” He glanced up at John, eyes sparkling with mirth, and John quickly looked away before the bubble of laughter rising in his chest burst.

He turned once again to Victor, who hummed with mocking amusement as he tipped his head. “I’ll just have the gnocchi,” he said thinly, lifting his menu up to John, who took it with a bow of his head before turning to Sherlock.

“Um, I-” the man stammered, a telltale flustered expression on his face as he looked frantically over the menu, and John was just opening his mouth to tell him he could come back when Victor spoke out instead.

“He’ll have the veal,” he muttered, and Sherlock snapped his face up, forehead creased in offense.

“No, he won’t,” he said, flicking a glance up at John, though his eyes remained mostly focused on his date.

“It’s good, trust me,” Victor assured, waving a hand. “The mushroom sauce is _incredible_.”

“I’m allergic to mushrooms,” Sherlock snapped, Victor only rolling his eyes for some incomprehensible reason.

“Yeah, but not _badly._ And you have one of those pen things anyway, don’t you?” he countered airily, expression completely untroubled, and Sherlock just stared at him, incredulity growing on his face the longer his eyes traced over Victor’s.

“The chicken special’s been popular,” John suggested, if only to break the tension so he could escape, and Sherlock looked up at him as if being pulled from a trance. “Or the seafood risotto,” he added, shrugging a shoulder as he passed down as subtle a look of sympathy as he could manage, and Sherlock smiled weakly back, dropping his eyes to the menu.

“Er, the chicken, I guess,” he murmured with a tired shrug, folding his menu and passing it up.

“I’ll put that right in,” John assured with a nod, stepping back from the table. “And I’ll bring out some bread for you while you wait,” he added, and then turned, gaze lingering on Sherlock for as long as his eyes could manage it, the man focused unseeingly down at the tablecloth in front of him, brow faintly creased in thought.

John dropped the orders off in the kitchen, adding an extra notation to the bottom of Sherlock’s to ensure no mushrooms or consulting detectives were harmed in the making of this meal. The elderly couple’s dishes were ready, so he brought them out, fetching a bottle of vinegar when the man requested it on his wife’s behalf, the woman having gone to the toilet, and then popped back into the kitchen, shouting out a request for a basket of bread. He wasn’t gone long, but he could feel something had changed by the time he got back, the atmosphere tangibly thickening as he drew nearer to the table.

“Father’s thinking somewhere tropical,” Victor was saying, shrugging a shoulder, apparently oblivious to Sherlock’s indifference, the man looking down into his water glass like he could will it to show him the future, “but I’m not so sure. May’s a tricky time weather-wise.”

“May?” Sherlock questioned, not so distracted after all, it would seem, and Victor nodded.

“Yeah, that first full week. May 4th through 8th,” he elaborated as Sherlock shook his head.

“Graduation’s that Wednesday,” he replied. “I won’t be able to go.”

“But they just mail you your diploma anyway, right?” Victor pressed, Sherlock’s brows twitching together warily.

“Yes,” he drawled, “but the _ceremony_ is the 6 th.”

“But you don’t have to _be_ there,” the blond continued, and Sherlock frowned, John reaching in quickly in the pause to drop off the bread and butter so he could make himself scarce.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, shaking his head faintly, “I don’t _have_ to, but-”

“Come on, please?” Victor pleaded, and John stopped dead, turning back over his shoulder, stunned by the shift in the man’s tone. Victor leaned across the table, a smile on his face that made John’s blood curdle, although that may have had more to do with the hand he placed atop Sherlock’s on the table, something Sherlock didn’t look any less surprised at. “You know how boring these company retreats get. And I’m trying to make _partner_ right now. I have to make a good impression.”

“On who, your  _dad_?” Sherlock scoffed, withdrawing his hand with a sharp tug. “I’m not skipping my _graduation_ to hover at your shoulder all week!”

“You’re going to graduate school!” Victor urged, lifting his hands out to the man. “You can go to that ceremony!”

Sherlock did not immediately reply, simply watching Victor for a long moment in silence, the blond’s face gradually growing puzzled. “No,” he finally said, so soft, it nearly didn’t carry to John’s prying ears, but then he shook his head, voice strengthening as his jaw set. “No,” he repeated, and Victor sighed, diving back into his tirade, which John took as his cue to leave.

He stopped by his elderly couple again, noticing that the woman had returned, and received rave reviews for the meals, promising he would compliment the chef as he headed back to the kitchen, flicking one last glance over his shoulder.

Victor was still talking, Sherlock still shaking his head, and John felt a flicker of hope spark across his chest, a sensation quickly followed by buckets of shame.

After relaying the couple’s sentiments to the chef, he hovered just outside the kitchen, not quite willing to admit to himself he was hiding, but he couldn’t come up with another word for it.

He considered asking someone else to take the table from him to spare himself the frustration of watching the remainder of the meal eaten in tense silence before Sherlock inevitably left with one of the only people John would genuinely strangle with his bare hands, but decided against it, a true masochist at heart.

After taking a moment to steady himself, leaning his skull back against the wall as he closed his eyes and blew out a breath to the ceiling, he pushed upright, striding confidently around the corner to the dining room to carry valiantly on. Except, it seemed, the battle was over, at least for him, Sherlock sitting alone at the table, pinching at the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.

Victor’s briefcase was gone.

Running would have been undignified, but John would resign to calling it hastening, his steps quick as he flit through the maze of tables and shifting chairs. Once he drew up to Sherlock’s side, however, he realized he had no idea what to say, and simply hovered, mouth shifting without sound as he twisted his fingers in front of him.

“He’s not coming back,” Sherlock said, startling him slightly as he slowly lifted his chin. “In case that wasn’t clear,” he added, lips quirking in a frail smile, an effort John weakly returned. The man sighed, pushing at the bottom of his water glass as he slid it side-to-side in small motions. “You know, all in all,” he said suddenly, looking thoughtfully out ahead of him, “this evening could have gone a lot worse.”

John was startled into a laugh, a breathy huff of air hissing up from his lungs. “It could’ve?” he inquired, and Sherlock nodded, smile brightening as he looked down to the table again.

“I could be going to the Maldives,” he remarked, and John let out a proper laugh. “With a bunch of _lawyers_!” he added with a grimace, as if the gravity of the situation were just sinking in, and then looked up at John, starting to laugh himself.

“I dunno,” John chuckled, shrugging a shoulder, “the Maldives are probably nice.”

“Not worth it, though,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head as he lifted his glass of water.

John watched the swallow bob down his throat, his hand clenching into a fist at his side as Sherlock’s tongue swept across his bottom lip to brush away the excess moisture. “So, I guess,” he said slowly, gaze focused somewhere around the centerpiece as he saw Sherlock turn to him in the corner of his eye, “that would make you free tonight.” He peered across at Sherlock through his lashes, the man’s grey eyes widening as his lips dropped apart, and then he started to laugh, slow at first, and then the kind you were required a stifle, a bright pink flush burning across his sculpted cheeks.

“Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of…mourning period?” he spluttered, waving a hand in front of his chest, but John only smiled.

“Are you mourning?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say died on his tongue, his lips closing as he blinked down at the table, brow furrowing. “I-I don’t know,” he murmured, as if that had never happened, and John beamed.

“My shift ends in an hour,” he said, grinning when Sherlock looked up at him, cheeks tinting red once more. “You can hang around, if you want; we don’t need the table again. I can still bring out your food though.”

“No, just-just cancel it,” Sherlock insisted, flicking a hand through the air. “I didn’t even wanna come here,” he grumbled, and John laughed.

“What _did_ you wanna do then?” he pressed, smiling as Sherlock shot him a playful glare.

“Order takeaway and watch Doctor Who reruns,” he mumbled, and John slapped a hand to his mouth, trying to muffle his guffaws. “By myself,” the detective added even softer, and John desperately needed air.

“Oh my _god_!”

“Well, this is _horrible_!” Sherlock urged, waving a hand out at the spectacle. “All the flowers and proposals! And what is going on with that piano, honestly? Unless someone’s going to put on a mask and drop a chandelier, that has no business being here.”

“It’s ambience.”

“It’s unsettling,” Sherlock countered, and John clutched at his stomach, silently shaking.

“I can’t even argue with you there,” he chuckled, turning to shake his head at the pianist, a poetic view through the flickering flames of the candelabra, “but I don’t think Charlie’s going to be dropping any chandeliers on anyone.”

“Pity,” Sherlock bemoaned, and John laughed again, smiling down at him.

He then dropped his gaze to his shoes, shifting them against the hardwood. “Well,” he muttered, scraping his teeth over his bottom lip as he looked up, “think you’d mind a little company?”

Sherlock pressed his lips tight to smother a grin, ultimately dropping his face to the table as he failed. “I suppose I could bear a little,” he mumbled, looking up at John through his lashes, and John didn’t even try not to beam, his cheeks actually aching with it.

“Okay then,” he chirped, and Sherlock laughed, shaking his head in amusement as John ambled backward. “I’ll just go cancel that order,” he said, bobbing a thumb back over his shoulder.

Sherlock smiled, nodding as he lifted his brows. “You do that.”

“I will,” John quipped back, spinning around as Sherlock laughed, and then grinned to himself all the way to the kitchen, garnering more than one worried glance from his coworkers.

Sherlock was on his mobile when John reappeared, but he cast him a small smile as he walked past, checking on his tables, one of them requesting another drink.

“Vodka cranberry,” he said, leaning forward over the bar, his eyes fixed on the back of Sherlock’s head.

Irene simply stood there in his peripheral vision, folding her arms, and, eventually, he was forced to look at her.

“What?” he asked as innocently as he could manage, but he could not stop his lips from twitching up in betrayal.

Irene shook her head, smirking as she fetched a glass bottle from the overhead shelves, and then, just loud enough for John to hear... “I came in like a wreeeecking ba-”

John elbowed her in the arm, cutting off the serenade as the woman cackled, skittering away to grab the cranberry juice from the fridge. He shook his head after her, and then looked back out at the restaurant, eyes finding Sherlock’s already on him.

The man tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing in an inquisitive frown, but John only shook his head, waving a hand in silent promise to explain later.

They had plenty of time.


End file.
